


We Open Our Eyes

by FilteredSunlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Parentlock, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FilteredSunlight/pseuds/FilteredSunlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s awfully lucky for them that Dad is so readable, otherwise, they would have to tell her, and she knows that it would break them right then and there. She can read the diagnosis in the creases in his face and in the tilt of his brow as easily as she can read type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Open Our Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. Seriously. 
> 
> So, this obviously is not the most original work I could have written (read Where I Cannot Find You anyone?). Even January's name isn't 100% original. Oh well. At least in admitting it, I get some of the guilt off my chest. This is different enough, however, that it might be worth a read.
> 
> Obviously, I am not a doctor. I based January's illness off of a type of cancer (won't tell you which), but while in the editing stage, I did some more research and discovered that some of the circumstances weren't 100% possible, which is why A) the illness isn't ever named, and B) the symptoms and everything surrounding the illness is a bit vague and sometimes unrealistic. Reader be warned.
> 
> Again, read no further if any of the tags bother you. Because all of them will be heavily involved. Read at your own risk.

-SEPTEMBER-

 

            The second January sees the look on Dad’s face, she knows.

            It’s awfully lucky for them that Dad is so readable, otherwise, they would have to _tell_ her, and she knows that it would break them right then and there. She can read the diagnosis in the creases in his face and in the tilt of his brow as easily as she can read type.

            After a moment, January shifts her gaze to Father, and her look is pleading now; he needs to understand that she knows, he needs to tell Dad that he doesn’t have to say it, because January can’t speak right now. She prays that he will, at least, say something before Dad does, if he can’t be bothered to deduce at the moment, because she knows that Father loves Dad, and Dad will not survive telling January what is going to happen to her.

            She thanks her lucky stars when Father finally says, “Four to six months.”

            January understands this; this is something that happens. People die. It isn’t until Dad abruptly stands up and practically stumbles out of the room, choking on tears he refuses to shed, that she feels anything that one would consider normal. She watches him leave, disappearing around the corner, and January feels so guilty that she is causing so much pain that she forgives Dad for not being a proper parent in that instant. She can’t blame him; he deserves better than January.

            Father and January both stare at the door behind which he vanished, and January feels the guilt crush in on her from all sides; people are going to hurt because of her. People are going to cry because of her. She shuts her eyes because the tears have started to cloud up her vision, and she doesn’t want Father to watch her cry. She needs to leave, to get out of the room, which is steadily filling up with stuffy, horrible air. It is too thick, too heavy with things that should be said but aren’t, unfit for breathing.

            Father is still staring at the door through which Dad left, and January wants to fling herself at him like she did when she was small. She wants to fold herself up and fit right under his arm like she was built to be there. He would probably let her, if she tried, but she can’t seem to make herself move. The air is like molasses around her, holding her in place.

            If only she had a parent with enough tact to come to her. Or look at her, at least. Or maybe not leave the room in a flurry of unshed tears. Sometimes she hates them, Dad and Father, resents them for being who they are. People who will gladly give her the facts and figures, which she has learned to live on. She has taught herself to survive without the expression of emotions or the discussion of difficult topics. She can sort all those difficult things out for herself, and this isn’t any different. She just needs to collect herself. Organize her thoughts, box them away until she’s alone and can cry without fear of being seen.

            January stands up, excruciatingly, battling the thick syrup around her. She makes her way towards the stairway to her bedroom, but it stopped by a hand gripping her wrist. Spinning around, she finds herself face to face with her Father’s chest. He presses her against him, wrapping his bony arms around her back, and pulling at the black curls that rest there.

            “I’m sorry, January,” he says, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m so sorry.” And for the first time in his life, he actually sounds it.

***

  

            “So, we’ll need to get your affairs in order, of course.”

            Father and Dad sit across from her at the newly cleared kitchen table. The petri dishes and half-finished experiments are gone. Now the table is bare and far too clean and the lack of papers beneath January’s elbows is the most uncomfortable thing in the universe. Besides, of course, the conversation that takes place after a terminal diagnosis.

            “Yeah. I guess,” she says, staring at a spot on the wood of the table she hasn’t ever noticed before. It’s little and yellow-ish and far safer than the look in her parents’ eyes.

            “And your father and I wanted you to be involved in this,” Dad says, and January is indecently pleased with the discomfort audible in his voice.

            She does not respond. The little, yellow-ish spot is too interesting.

            “January, that means you’ll have to decide what you want to happen,” Dad says in a very nearly condescending tone of voice, but January is far too tired to react to how he’s spelling it out for her.

            “I don’t care. You guys choose.” She refuses to look up at them, staring even harder at the spot. There is too much silence in this conversation.

            “We want _you_ to pick, monkey,” Dad says, and she can hear him leaning back in his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. He’s too readable.

            When Father doesn’t comment on the nickname like he usually does _(she’s a human, John.)_ , January looks up, unsettled. Father is staring out the window. He hasn’t said anything in this entire conversation. Not that she expected more from him. Looking over to Dad, she sees the way he’s crossed his arms and sucked in his cheek, and he can’t even be trying to hide how angry and upset he is because it is _so clear_. Father won’t look at her, and Dad’s put on his ‘I’m a soldier I’m brave I can handle anything’ face and it _hurts_. January feels it twist in her chest and claw up into her throat and she is done.

            “You two are rubbish parents,” she snaps, lips tight, and walks to her room, trying to act dignified while her chair clatters to the floor around the echoes of her childish outburst.

  

***

            January lies in her bed, rose print duvet tucked up to her chin, legs curled against her chest. She breathes, trying to diminish the dull ache in her chest. It’s the kind of sadness that just sits, dormant, a side effect of restrained emotion. It’s the kind of sadness that doesn’t push itself over the brink to the point of tears, even though tears would feel so much better. Screaming would be so much better. Throwing a tantrum would be so much better. It hurts a thousand times more than crying ever could, and January is suffocating.

***

  

            Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him fuck him fuck him. Evan was a shitty boyfriend anyway. Anyone who ignores their newly dying significant other is a piece of shit.

            Not really.

            Not everyone has a handle over what they do. No one does, actually. Despite what January used to believe about Father and Uncle Mycroft and herself. Because yesterday she saw Father when he was alone with Dad and she saw the look on his face. Because she found the two, brand new CCTVs positioned on the building across from her window. Because she can’t stop the choking, drowning guilt she is feeling. And if these sorts of people can’t weather an insignificant death with poise, then how can she expect an anxiety prone teenage boy to pull himself together? How can she expect Evan to be a model boyfriend _now_?

            And he wasn’t that shitty of a boyfriend. There were all those times when he actually put his head on her shoulder, and when he held her hand, and when they were lying on top of his bed and Evan actually curled up against her for once (he wasn’t one for touching anyone, really). But every good feeling now is tinged along the edges with the knowledge that Evan can’t care about her all that much.

            A text only takes so much effort.

            And he posted to Facebook the other day.

            Fuck him fuck him fuck him.

  

***

“She hasn’t gotten out of bed in a week, Sherlock, I think that constitutes depression.”

“January isn’t depressed. She’s just…”

“What? She’s just what? Look, I’ll tell you what she’s not: she’s not _you_ , Sherlock.”

“This is not depression. This is the most normal and relatively harmless reaction to the coming of terms with a terminal illness. This isn’t like last year at all. She’ll be over it soon enough. I’ve told you time and again, John; January isn’t average. She may even be part of the two percent that lives for a year.”

“January is most certainly not average. I know that. But maybe this is the one thing that she is ordinary about. And if you keep telling that she’s the outlier, and it ends up that she isn’t, you’re going to ruin her last days. And you know what, Sherlock? This is _exactly_ like last year! The only difference is that we know exactly what the cause is, this time. That doesn’t make any difference!”

“It makes all the difference, if you would just pay attention. We know that the cause is not only a legitimate and justified reason for lethargy and unhappiness, but that depression is a side effect of a terminal diagnosis. This is normal, and she isn’t depressed. At least not in the usual, and long-term, sense of the word.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, the only reason it isn’t long term is because she’s going to- Just… Fine. Fine. Whatever you say. As usual. I’ll take your word for it. Honestly, though, if she doesn’t get up soon, we’re having this conversation again. And I’m not going to be half as kind.”

-OCTOBER-

_from: january.watsonholmes@aol.co.uk_

_to: lilly_loves_a_koala16@yahoo.co.uk_

_subject: January is AWOL: an explanation_

_date: 5/10/14_

_I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You know me, Lillian, so you already know that I am bad at basic human interaction, and I’m a massive coward, and I’m simply weak, which is why I’m emailing you instead of talking to you in person. Because what I have to say is extremely unpleasant and I intend to tell you in the manner that someone’s parent might call ‘ripping off a bandage’ or some equally unintelligent metaphor, but you get the idea, so I may as well just say it. You should understand that I am sorry though, that I can’t be better about this, mostly._ _Ugh. Sorry I’m being so awkward about it._ _If your texts are anything to go by, you’ve noticed my absence for the past few weeks, and I am so sorry that I haven’t responded. I couldn’t. I tried, but my dads are driving me mad and I can hardly deal with them and Mrs. Hudson and Uncle Mycroft, much less the people I have chosen to care about (i.e. you and Evan etc.). I’m still sorry, though._ _So, I may as well just get on with it and tell you. Last month, I had to go to the hospital. I’m sick. I have six months, maybe. Four is more likely._ _So, obviously, I’m not going to be in school. You should come visit me soon, though, if you can. If you want to. I understand if you don’t. Everyone is losing their shit around here and things are kind of falling apart, so if you do want to, it’d be lovely if you came to see me at some point, because some sense of normalcy right now would be great._ _If you would be so kind as to never say ‘passing on’ or ‘my next journey’ or ‘the natural shifting of my present state of being’ or any of the other bullshit that has already been spouted, that would be bloody amazing. I know I’m dying. Just say that. You know I can only handle so much inanity._ _I’m sorry._ _I love you, Lilly._

_JWH_

***

_from: lilly_loves_a_koala16@yahoo.co.uk_

_to: january.watsonholmes@aol.co.uk_

_subject: re: January is AWOL: an explanation_

_date: 5/10/14_

_Oh my god. January. I am so so sorry. I dont know what to say. I wish I was with you right now so I could hug you and cry with you and god I am so sorry. I love you so much January. Honestly. I guess I’ll just try to treat this like a normal email, because I don’t know what else to do really._ _Its totally fine that you haven’t talked to me. I completely understand. Sorry your family is being crazy. I mean, you can’t blame them. Im freaking out too. Ill bet your uncle is being ridiculous right now. Hes crazy enough as it is. haha. Sorry. This isnt really funny. Just trying to act normal. Im failing. If you havent noticed. Ill come over asap okay? When is good for u? Are you at home or hospital already? Do you feel well enough for me to come?_ _god you must hate all those doctors and nurses. ha sucks. Trying to be all sensitive and calming around you. Have you punched one yet?? (bet you have)_ _I LOVE YOU SO MUCH_ _Its going to be fine._

_xoxo Lillian_

_from: january.watsonholmes@aol.co.uk_

_to: lilly_loves_a_koala16@yahoo.co.uk_

_subject: re: January is AWOL: an explanation_

_date: 7/10/14_

_Do you know how bad your grammar and punctuation is when you write emails? I must have commented before because it is AWFUL._ _I wish I was with you, too, Lilly. I miss you so much. I’m sorry I told you through email. I don’t think I would’ve survived telling you in person._ _Mycroft is being terrible and insane, but nowhere near as bad as my dads. I’m getting two special flavors of crazy from both of them. On one end of the spectrum, Dad keeps touching my shoulder when he walks by, or hugging me when he comes home from Tesco, and on the other, Father just stares at me, as if he might find a cure coded into the pattern of my blinking. Ugh._ _I’m still at home, and I kind of wish I was in hospital already. At least I wouldn’t be trapped with just my parents 24/7 being completely ridiculous. But then I’d have to deal with even more nurses and their constantly chipper attitudes. I hate them so much. And it isn’t going to be fine. The definition of terminal is essentially ‘not fine’._ _Can you come tomorrow? I don’t know how much longer I’ll last with only these two (and Mrs. Hudson) for company._ _How is Evan? I’ve hardly heard from him. I told him a week after the diagnosis and he’s kind of being a dickhead and ignoring me._ _Thanks, Lillian._

_JWH_

_from: lilly_loves_a_koala16@yahoo.co.uk_

_to: january.watsonholmes@aol.co.uk_

_subject: re: January is AWOL: an explanation_

_date: 7/10/14_

_OF COURSE ILL COME TOMORROW. Ill be there at noon hope that works for you because Im not changing my plans._ _Ummm well Evan isnt great. He was out for a week and when he came back he was all quiet at the time none of us knew what was wrong. I guess it makes sense now. But seriously its fucked up that he hasnt even talked to u at all. That is extremely not okay._ _ill see you tomorrow, cutie._

_xoxo Lillian_ _p.s. screw you grammar rules were made to be broken._

_from: january.watsonholmes@aol.co.uk_

_to: lilly_loves_a_koala16@yahoo.co.uk_

_subject: re: January is AWOL: an explanation_

_date: 7/10/14_

_See you tomorrow._ _JWH_

-NOVEMBER-

 

            The clock blinks a blue 2:36 across the room, and it is the only source of light in January’s bedroom, save for the window across from where Sherlock is standing. There’s that inexplicable witching hour light that is somehow always present, despite a lack of moon or working streetlight. January breathes softly, her side rising gently and falling again. He counts her breaths, knowing that they have always been numbered, from the second she was born. They are all doomed to stop breathing, they are all born with a fate to go from is to isn’t, but the fact that they are crawling ever closer to the end of his daughter’s given number causes his chest to seize.

            “You know, most people would consider this creepy.”

            Sherlock had been too wrapped up in the observation of his daughter to hear John’s footsteps in the doorway. He’s slipping.

            “Hmm.”

            John sidles up beside him, his socked feet scooting softly across the hardwood floor. They stand, not touching, against the wall, and they watch.

            “So,” John says. He is speaking softly, almost whispering, but with too little breath and too much of a cheeky grin. “Any reason we’re invading our daughter’s privacy so thoroughly?” He shifts so that he can brush his shoulder against Sherlock’s teasingly.

            “I’m glad we didn’t do the chemotherapy,” Sherlock states, equally as quietly. It doesn’t seem to be a response, but it does answer the question. John pulls his shoulders back and he inhales like he often does, and Sherlock knows he is shifting towards soldier, preparing to battle the discomfort of discussions about things like this.

            “Yes,” John says. They haven’t talked about this before.

            “I want her to stay like this.” Sherlock gestures to January’s face, soft and sweet as her eyes flick through REM cycle.

            John smiles (more of a grimace). “And you pretend you aren't sentimental. Her face is sharp enough as it is, though, yeah? We don’t need her cheeks any more hollow than they already are.”

            Sherlock licks his lips. Odds are good John won’t be happy with him when he’s through. “John, obviously, we know she is going to die. The doctors told us that. They gave us six months, ish. Had we chosen to go through with the chemotherapy, we could have had eight. Maybe twelve. The doctor also told us that much. If we did choose that path, though, she would have changed. More than she is already, anyway. She would have lost more weight. She might have become anemic, she would have been constantly tired, she wouldn’t have wanted to move around. She would have been miserable. And even so, she would have died anyway, no matter what we tried. So what would the point be? Why would we even-“

            “Sherlock.” John frowns and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You told me all this already. In September, when we the doctors had us choose. You told me almost the exact same thing as this, yeah? What’s going on?”

            Sherlock shuts his eyes, needing to close off one of his senses for a moment.

            “I just needed to remind myself. Needed to reorganize. I don’t…” Sherlock cuts himself off momentarily. “I- I don’t want to have made a mistake. I don’t make mistakes, obviously, but… Did we, John? Make a mistake, that is.”

            John shakes his head, smiling inexplicably up at Sherlock. “No. We didn’t. I swear. All right?”

            “All right. And anyway, I like her hair far too much.” They begin to leave.

            “Of course you do, it’s the exact same as yours. Vain git.” They don’t bother to shut the door behind them.

 

 

-DECEMBER-

 

The line clicks to life on the sixth ring of Evan's third attempt at calling.

"Hello?"

"Yeah."

"January. Oh god. Hi-"

"What do you need, Evan?"

"I- erm- I just wanted to talk to you. To see how you were doing."

"Yeah, well, you're about four months late on that."

"I know..."

"Well, I'm fine."

"That's good, yeah?"

"...Why is this the first time you've talked to me?"

"I... I didn't know what to say, I guess."

"Ha! How about 'hey, January, sorry you're dying, maybe we should see each other soon'?"

“Look, I just didn’t know how to-”

“Lillian was perfectly capable of it.”

"I was afraid-"

"Oh, okay. _You_ were afraid. I've frightened you, that's just awful, are you feeling better now?"

"Look, this has been hard on all of us. Lillian, and me, and _everyone_."

"Has this been hard on you? Wow, gosh, do tell everyone how sorry I am about putting them through something as terribly hard as this. Don't worry, though! I'll be gone soon enough, never to trouble your pretty little heads again."

"That isn't what I meant, January, and you know it."

"I'm sure the reason you couldn't be bothered to pick up your phone and text me was because it was _so_ hard on you. And I thought _I_ was the one who was bad at social interaction."

"Look! It fucking sucks that you're dying and can't do anything about it, but you aren't dying alone. We'll still be here after you're gone and we're the ones who are going to have to clean up the mess."

"Again, so sorry that I'm leaving such a disaster for you to pick up the pieces of."

"January, just let me talk without twisting my words-"

"You don't get to talk! You don't get to ring me after four bloody months when I was told that I have six if I'm lucky. You have no right to tell me to let you talk."

"Please, January-"

"You are _such_ an entitled, selfish, dick, Evan. You were a shitty boyfriend from the start. I _always_ had to start the conversation, or take your hand, or make the romantic gesture."

"Don't dredge up the past. It has nothing to do with this conversation now."

"Oh, doesn't it, though? You would never text me! I would ask if we should hang out and you would blatantly ignore me."

"No-"

"You ignored me on my fucking birthday last year while you were out of town. I wrote you an excessively long letter for your birthday, and you didn't even talk to me on mine."

"Well, you had that one locked and loaded, didn’t you?"

"It hurt, Evan. I'm sure you think I don’t care or whatever because you’re about as intelligent as a sea slug. I had hoped you knew that it would break my heart to realize time and time again that you didn't care about me."

"You are being so melodramatic; of course I care about you."

"No you don't. The facts are laid out before us. I was diagnosed as _terminal_ and you wouldn't call. It's so obvious. This is just the final proof, and we can’t ignore the facts.”

"January! I was scared, but I do care about you. I love-"

"Don't say that, you manipulative- just, don't fuck with me. You told me that before. And I believed you, even though it was crystal clear you only did that to get me to do something for you. Shit, you always were such a bad liar."

"I do, though. I really do."

"Maybe you do, but I always loved you so much more than you ever loved me. How could someone like you ever love someone like me to the degree at which I cared for you? The probability of that..."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't give back the two-thirds of what I had left."

"I'll try harder."

"Do you not understand the word terminal, you moron? I'm dying-"

"Is this some morbid way of breaking up with me? Seriously?"

"Bye, Evan. Fuck you."

"January-"

"..."

 

 

 

-JANUARY-

 

            It isn’t the fact that she’s going to die. She knew that from the start. From the moment she saw her Dad’s face, she knew that she was ending up dead.

            So it isn’t the fact that she’s going to die. It’s the fact that there isn’t anything left to lose, and there is no way in hell that January is going to let something else decide when she dies.

            Another factor is, of course the ease at which she can do it now. Before, she was afraid; not of death, but of leaving her body, brain and blood on the ceiling, for her fathers to clean up. January knows what it was like the first time, when they had to pull her waterlogged head out from the bathtub before they called 999. But now, with the pain medication just a bedside table away, she can do it and not even leave her bed. There will be no gore for them to clean up, just a body, as damaged now as it will ever be, for them to bury. There was going to be a body anyway. She’s just taking her life back into her hands.

            Based on the load of research she’s done lately on terminal illness, this isn’t an uncommon thing. In fact, it’s often something done with the assistance of family members, and the authorities almost always turn a blind eye to it. However, January knows her fathers, and she knows that if she so much as brought this up, they would pounce on her and try to lock her up in an institution or something. They aren’t exactly to blame. The odds that they would be okay with their only daughter committing suicide for the second time are miniscule. Even if she hadn’t tried to a few years ago, they would never allow it. Honestly, it’s a bit selfish of them, to try and keep her alive until the moment that her heart can’t possibly take it anymore. And it’s selfish of her to want to take that away from them.

            January decides to do it while Dad is out one day. It’s quiet and calm in the flat, and for the first time in months, there is no clattering around in the kitchen for tea or the soft, arrhythmic clicks of Dad or Father typing. She can, as always, hear Mrs. Hudson a floor below, humming something, and it is comforting, this gentle sound that she knows so well when her mind is in such an unfamiliar place. She almost wishes that she could hear her parents doing something. But not really. If she could hear her fathers at that moment, January knows she wouldn’t be able to go through with it, so Mrs. Hudson’s humming is the closest she is going to get to comfort.

            January climbs out of bed, her rose print duvet rustling softly in the silence of the flat as she pushes it away and teeters unsteadily towards her bedroom door. Slowly and as quietly as possible, she shuts it and turns the lock. Locking her door won’t keep her fathers out, but if one of them arrives before she is through, it will, at the very least, slow them down. When she shuts her door, the humming downstairs is more muffled, but not inaudible, and for this, January is thankful. If it weren’t for the comfort of Mrs. Hudson’s humming, she would probably be in tears at this point.

            She creeps back over to her little nightstand, where the bottle of pills stands, seemingly innocent and harmless set against the background of her yellow walls. January grabs the bottle, the rattle of the pills inside turning her stomach, and dumps a pile onto her bed, where they fall, so white and so tiny to be causing so much trouble.

            It is in front of this pile that she sits cross-legged and silent. Just listening to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson cleaning and humming and making generally calming sounds. She knows she is being stubborn- being stubborn is the only reason she is doing this. She is taking back her life from the thing inside her. Her own death is just collateral damage.

            January understands her need to do this. January understands why she is capable of it now. January _wants_ to do it now. But January isn’t swallowing any pills, and the pills are mocking her. They look up at her and taunt her, because now she has a reason, now she won’t feel guilty (she was going to die anyway), now she has said goodbye to everyone she cares for, and she is still just sitting on her bed, facing the thing she will, if luck be with her, die from.

            The pills continue to sit, and January’s hand continues to refuse to move.

 

***

  

            It’s two years ago all over again; the same thoughts are flying through his head, the same feeling of utter panic and nausea is coursing through his veins, even the paramedics are similar enough. They call out all the same numbers and ‘comforting’ inanities to John and himself as the ambulance wails all around them. January even looks the same; just as pale and helpless, lips just as blue, eyes just as red. Everything is the same, and that’s why it hurts so much more. Because everything is the same, and he should have known; Sherlock is her father, he can read a software designer by his tie, an airline pilot by his left thumb, and he should have known.

            If Sherlock wasn’t so selfish, he wouldn’t have punched the paramedic who told him that ‘she’s terminal and dying anyway, maybe this is the best way for her to go’. He wouldn’t have agreed to have her wheeled away to be saved. He wouldn’t have even called 999 when he saw the pill bottle lying next to her blue hand. But he is, and he knows that John is too, and they won’t have their last days with their daughter stolen by a couple of pills.

            John is crying again, and it hurts like no physical harm ever could. Sherlock can count on one hand the number of times he has seen John cry, and if he could manage to delete every last instance, he would be a happier man. The tears that course down his weathered and well-worn face don’t belong to John Watson. They belong to someone else, someone who deserves this. Not John Watson.

            January is breathing, and Sherlock knows she will live, but the ridiculous and unhelpful fear won’t stop pumping through him. He can feel it clawing up his throat and tearing at his insides, trying to break free. It isn’t until January is wheeled inside the hospital and he and John are shunted into a cramped, depressing waiting room that he finally stops wanting to vomit. It is the beige carpeting and grey upholstery of the room that does it. It is all so dull and calm that he can finally _think_ and breathe and become Sherlock Holmes. Because that’s who John needs right now, and as incapable as Sherlock is at understanding people, he knows that he has to be himself for John.

            He wraps an arm around John, ignoring the shaking of his body so he can focus on what needs to be done. He murmurs deductions- the truth- about what will happen with January. He tells John how she will be fine, the damage to her liver will be undone, they found her just in time, she will wake up within a few hours, they will go home, she will get through the required therapy sessions, and they will keep a closer eye on her.

            Sherlock does not tell him that very little of this matters, anyway. He does not tell him that in as soon as a week this will be obsolete. He does not tell him that it takes six months to make it through the recovery program for attempted suicide, and that January won’t live to see the end of it.

            And later on, in January’s bleak hospital room, while John traces circles onto her palm and Sherlock fingers her dark curls, while the silence roars around them, he does not tell him that all of this is his fault, in every way imaginable. Sherlock was the one convinced John that they needed to get out for a while. Sherlock was the one who told January’s oncologist that she did not need therapy. Sherlock was the one who cursed her with his genetic predisposition toward addiction and suicidal tendencies.

            Sherlock does not tell this to John. And the silence thunders on.

 

 

-FEBRUARY-

 

            From the second we open our eyes and see the world, we are meant to stop existing. This is how every good thing _ever_ has happened. We must die to create room for new life, and keep that new life alive. We must die to push on evolution and the development of our species. We must die to clear away the unnecessary and unhelpful from the earth.

            There are seven billion people on the planet. Worse things have happened. One tiny, insignificant girl living in London matters like one blade of grass matters to the garden of Versailles.

            All lives end. All hearts are broken. And both are happening hospital room number 36c.

            Sherlock cannot decide whether or not he is glad that January is unconscious. On one hand, he wants to see her eyes again. He wants to hear her analyze the positioning of the hospital beds vs. the windows in the room (bed against the far left wall, windows opposite the bed, so that the patient may see the outdoors, maybe for the last time, but family can mourn towards deceased, without being self-conscious of the possibility of being seen). He wants her to roll her eyes once more when John says something ridiculously stupid about how much he loves her.

            On the other, he would sooner die than let her see John cry. Which John is doing. It wouldn’t be fair to her. No one should ever see their father cry.

            He also knows that she was in pain, and that this is probably the least painful way for January to go. For January. Not for John. And not for Sherlock.

            The least painful way, for John, would involve January’s lucidity until the last second. It would involve statements of love and heartfelt promises to get on with their lives. It would not involve one lethal injection at 2:30 exactly.

            For Sherlock, it would be something involving another person. A murder. Or a kidnapping. Or just a car accident caused by someone else’s negligence. It would involve someone that he could go out and kill. That he could rip limb from limb until their pulse slowly halted. He can’t exact revenge on an internal killer. And that is what’s killing _him_.

            Actually, none of that is true. The least painful way for all of them would be years and years and years from now.

            The better part of Sherlock wants to be glad that she isn’t awake. The selfish part wants her to wake up and look at him one last time.

            And the very worst part of him wants to leave the room now. It wants to run out of this hospital, leaving John to do the dirty work. It wants to leave and never look back and off itself in a far away country.

            But he has learned to keep that part tamped down.

            The clock is running out. It now reads 2:23. Sherlock does not mention this to John, who is seated on the edge of January’s bed, holding her wrist tightly and running a hand over her forehead repeatedly. He is crying, the silent, shuddering, most awful kind of crying, and the tears are falling onto January’s crinkly paper hospital gown. The make round splatter marks where they hit the paper, covering her chest in a mosaic of little, wet dots.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. Comfort isn’t really his area, especially not when he is in just as much physical pain. It rips through his chest every time he inhales and leaves white-hot burns along his ribcage. But he knows that this is a defining moment; if he can’t comfort John now, he will have failed some secret test that every other normal person on earth is required to pass.

So breathing deeply (and ignoring the especially sharp stab), he moves from his place beside the door to the edge of January’s bed. Gently, as though he were trying to pet a wild animal, he reaches for John’s arm. Sherlock touches him softly with his fingertips, and John turns his head up to face him. Tear tracks line his face, and his eyes are red. Sherlock’s throat closes to see him like that, so weak and vulnerable. And it turns out that Sherlock won’t have to tell John that the time is growing near. He already knows.

They should feel lucky. They had one month more than the doctors estimated. She was the minority. They should feel incredibly lucky. They don’t.

Despite the worse parts of him, Sherlock is glad that they decided not to keep her alive once she went comatose. She’s essentially already dead. This is not the point of wanting someone alive. A pulse doesn’t make a human. A heartbeat isn’t equivalent to personality.

Sherlock lets his fingertips dance over John’s shoulders and upper arms. John’s back is shaking. And, upon further investigation, so is Sherlock’s. In fact, after taking actual stock of his senses (outside of his inner agony), Sherlock’s cheeks are wet. The tears are still falling, rhythmically stopping up his throat.

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry. Sherlock Holmes understands that every person’s life, no matter how extraordinary, is fated to end. As soon as we open our eyes.

When Sherlock glances to the clock on the wall again, and he sees that five minutes have passed, he suddenly tries to start backtracking. Maybe they ought to wait until tomorrow to stop her heart. Maybe they should have taken Mycroft up on that experimental drug. Maybe the chemotherapy wasn’t such a pointless idea.

They only have two minutes and Sherlock’s mind is racing, tripping over itself in a way that it hasn’t since he was seventeen and searching for relief at the point of a needle. The neatly organized boxes and filing cabinets of his mind palace are toppling over, spilling data and memories everywhere. He is suddenly regretting every single aspect of his life, every single time he made John or January unhappy, every single time he opted out of walking her to school, every single time he didn’t want to change her nappy. None of it was enough and now he is running out of heartbeats to enjoy. He hates himself. He hates John. He hates January. He hates the doctors and the idiots that populate his world.

The seconds are obviously speeding up.

The hands of the clock reach towards the two and the six.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair.

No, thank you. John is a doctor. I have experience. Give it to us and we’ll do it ourselves.

And we’d like to be alone. Please.

It is out of January’s hands now. They are the ones pushing her forward, and she will be the one falling.

“Clever girl. Beautiful girl.” He can hear himself murmuring it over and over again, a mantra cutting through the silence. He would never had said this if she was awake, but now, right now, he needs her to know this. He needs her to know how incredible she is. And he doesn't care that she probably can't hear him- he needs to tell her if only to keep himself sane.

John is quiet. His hand is steady in the face of the battlefield, and he picks up the syringe from the place Dr. Rhodes left it. He reaches for January’s arm. Sherlock cannot look, because he won’t survive it if he does. He looks at John’s face, how beautiful he is, how long before this is another line in his weathered face.

In an instant, John has done it and he is braver by far than Sherlock could ever be.

Sherlock forces himself not to put his face to John’s shoulder and takes her wrist in his hand. He forces himself to look. January’s pulse flutters feebly. “Beautiful girl.”

Sherlock looks at January’s face, and it isn’t sweet anymore (it hasn’t been for a long time). He looks at her eyelashes and her nose and her black fringe. “Clever girl.”

And she falls.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to bog you with notes, but you should all go read Where I Cannot Find You by withoutawish (if you haven't already. Nearly everyone has. You know, fandom classic and all). Honestly, it is the most heartbreaking thing.
> 
> While this isn't anywhere near based off of it, it was loosely inspired by it. Or it at least sparked the idea.


End file.
